Thursday, August 7, 2014
I'll Make A Man Out Of You
Make A Man Out Of You ( first day of boot camp )
In the Disney movie, "Mulan" there is a song while troops are in training.
The lyrics go like this, "I'll make a man out of you." The irony is Mulan is a woman.
I can't help but be transported back to 1977 and my experience as the gender minority entering the Army.
First you should understand why I joined. Most people thought it was because I was an avid tomboy and wanted to prove myself. This could not be further from the truth. It was fear, pure unadulterated fear. I had already applied and been accepted at a prestigious catholic college in Minnesota. True, money was a factor, but the biggest fear was I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I figured going to boot camp and service training would give me time to think. Another big faux pax, in boot camp you barely had time to pee, let alone think!
Often I regale people with tales from my Army days. Others often see these stories as wonderful adventure filled experiences. I guess they get somewhat embellished in the telling. The real truth is that it was a traumatic episode in a previously mundane Midwesterners life.
Somehow I found myself with hand in the air, swearing allegiance and obedience to
The United Staes Army. I was the only girl in the local group taking the oath that day. We were told to pack only one other set of clothes besides those on our backs and meet at Omaha's Eppley Airfield.
They said, " Your Uncle Sam will provide for your clothing needs now. "
When we met at the airport, our plane had some maintenance issues, and the next flight the Airlines could book us on would be the following day. Instead of letting us go home for one more night, the recruiter got us rooms at a nearby hotel. They must of figured we might be a flight risk.
The boys who had shorts decided to go down to the hotel pool. I had only the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing and a skirt and blouse in my suitcase. The recruiter came to my door at dinner time and asked me,
"Where are the boys?"
"Down in the pool."
"Please go and get them and tell them to meet me in the dinning room. I have the voucher to pay for your meals."
I did as he requested and headed down to the pool area. The other recruits were letting loose and cannon balling into the pool. I shouted at them what the recruiter said. One of the guys paddled to the edge and held out his hand and asked for help up. I should have known better, I have three older brothers! I offered a hand, and quick as a wink---found myself flying through the air and into the pool. Having only one other set of clothes and no access to a dryer, that is how I ended up arriving to basic training in a dress.
The next day started smooth. There were no plane troubles and we arrived in South Carolina without incident. My first impression was as you would expect on a hot day in July. Sweat was running down my back and we had not even arrived at Fort Jackson yet. A big green bus awaited us and we piled in. I felt somewhat like I imagined a cow did being herded onto a cattle truck going to slaughter.
We arrived at our destination. A large cement Tarmac like you would see at an airport. Several men in stiff starched uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats eagerly greeted us. Their faces were scrunched up, and I swear they foamed at the mouth like rabid dogs, as they screamed instructions at us. My legs were shaking so bad I almost tripped stepping out of the bus. I scuttled into a haphazard line next to a couple of other recruits.
It did not take long for one of Drill Instructors to zero in on me. I cannot recall what he first said to me because I was disconcerted by the edge of his hat tapping on my forehead. I just recalled that my brother who was a Marine (this I found out was an important factor) told me to say, Sir, Yes Sir, to everything said to me. So that is what I did!
"Sir, Yes Sir!" I shouted. It became clear that is not the Army way.
"Sir, Sir I work for a living! Get down and give me twenty maggot."
I got down---skirt and all, petrified the others would be looking up my skirt and somehow managed to get twenty push-ups accomplished. As I struggled to my feet I decided an apology was warranted. ( I had no knowledge yet of proper order of rank )
"Sorry Corporal."
"Corporal, Corporal, it's Sergeant trainee! Now get down and give me twenty more!"
Now that Tarmac was about a hundred and twenty degrees and I was still shaking from the first twenty and I was in a dress. Somehow I thought a shaking, tearful, young woman in a dress would elicit some sympathy and whined.
" Bbbut my skirt."
" No special treatment here maggot, this is Soldier training. Now add twenty to that!"
Down I went. I did not care anymore about my skirt, my hands burning on the hot pavement, and my own ragged breath gave me no time to be embarrassed. My only thought was, "I wanna go home." I had only been in basic training two minutes and already blew it three times. This did not bode well.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Something To Brag About
Something To Brag About
One time I was at a Martial Arts Hall of Fame function. I was nominated for induction along with fifty or so other martial arts practitioners. As we socialized in a large hallway, one man stood out. He was around sixty years old,
but looked stout and in good health. I had met him earlier an knew he was a veteran of Vietnam. Since he was a fellow Army vet I felt a kinship at first. Later though I came to the conclusion he was arrogant.
As he he was talking a small crowd gathered around him in a circle. He was the center of attention, both figuratively and literally. He had his arms outstretched with palms up. I moved closer to hear what was being said. He looked down at his palms and then slowly raised his head. He swiveled his head back and forth making eye contact with each person that surrounded him.
"Wow, he can work a crowd." I thought.
In a slow drawn out voice he said, " I've Killed with these bare hands."
The crowd nodded in acknowledgement of his statement. You could of heard a pin drop in their hushed admiration.
I was appalled. Why would that be something to be proud of? I found myself pushing my way between people to the middle of the circle. I looked the old man in the eye, then outstretched my arms in imitation. I looked down at my open hands, turning them up and down a couple of times. Then emulating his earlier actions raised my eyes and met the the gaze of the crowd. I then said loud and clear,
"I have not!"
The crowd irrupted in applause.
I've always admitted my potential for violence, to ignore it seems like a dangerous denial. Recognizing that potential, makes me aware, and gives me the ability to temper it. What I find offensive is reveling or relishing in your ability to do harm.
Hurting others is easy. Controlling yourself is the true test of strength. I hope to pass this on to my children and students.
One time I was at a Martial Arts Hall of Fame function. I was nominated for induction along with fifty or so other martial arts practitioners. As we socialized in a large hallway, one man stood out. He was around sixty years old,
but looked stout and in good health. I had met him earlier an knew he was a veteran of Vietnam. Since he was a fellow Army vet I felt a kinship at first. Later though I came to the conclusion he was arrogant.
As he he was talking a small crowd gathered around him in a circle. He was the center of attention, both figuratively and literally. He had his arms outstretched with palms up. I moved closer to hear what was being said. He looked down at his palms and then slowly raised his head. He swiveled his head back and forth making eye contact with each person that surrounded him.
"Wow, he can work a crowd." I thought.
In a slow drawn out voice he said, " I've Killed with these bare hands."
The crowd nodded in acknowledgement of his statement. You could of heard a pin drop in their hushed admiration.
I was appalled. Why would that be something to be proud of? I found myself pushing my way between people to the middle of the circle. I looked the old man in the eye, then outstretched my arms in imitation. I looked down at my open hands, turning them up and down a couple of times. Then emulating his earlier actions raised my eyes and met the the gaze of the crowd. I then said loud and clear,
"I have not!"
The crowd irrupted in applause.
I've always admitted my potential for violence, to ignore it seems like a dangerous denial. Recognizing that potential, makes me aware, and gives me the ability to temper it. What I find offensive is reveling or relishing in your ability to do harm.
Hurting others is easy. Controlling yourself is the true test of strength. I hope to pass this on to my children and students.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
30/30 month of Poems
Duck, bob, weave
Evade, move, block
Muscles tighten like rock
So I do not receive
That well placed kick
That fated blow
Opponent promises to bestow
Wish I was controlled by a joystick
My administrator skilled
Making me jump, fly, flip
But alas, it is not so
I should have swerved
Instead of dip, if I had
I might have preserved
My dignity and pride
Instead it resides
On the floor, along
With my backside
Evade, move, block
Muscles tighten like rock
So I do not receive
That well placed kick
That fated blow
Opponent promises to bestow
Wish I was controlled by a joystick
My administrator skilled
Making me jump, fly, flip
But alas, it is not so
I should have swerved
Instead of dip, if I had
I might have preserved
My dignity and pride
Instead it resides
On the floor, along
With my backside
Friday, February 28, 2014
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Christmas Past
Christmases Past
Tis the season for Christmas movies and in watching Scrooge for the thirtieth time, I decided to take a trip down memory lane to my Christmases past.
I was not surprised that it was not the gifts or lack of gifts that brought out cherished memories, but tiny moments of love or laughter that stood out.
Thought I would share some of those, so others might reflect on similar moments, and perhaps relax enough during this hectic season to take time to appreciate the small things.
# 1 memory “It does not take riches to laugh.”
When I was seventeen my sister lived on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota. I drove up to her North shore home for the holidays. Things were tight for my sister. She did not have money for fancy decorations. Getting a tree was an easy task, since my sister lived in the woods. We did not have to spend money for a tree, just the time and energy to cut one down. No fancy ornaments or colored lights, but out came the string and on went the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan, but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop-- it flew all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn, catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths, but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.
#2 memory “Always stay young at heart.”
One Christmas when I was a teen my church had a Jesse Tree at the front of the church. Then each Sunday during advent, children were to come up and place an ornament on the branches. The ornaments depicted the events up until Christ’s birth.
My dad at the time was sixty-five years old. He was a big man, over six feet, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, and a loud voice to match his stature. The first Sunday of advent I was sitting in-between my mother and father for mass. Imagine my mother’s surprise, and mine, when the priest asked for the children to come up and place their decorations on the tree, and up pops my dad. As the children shuffled up the isle, there was my dad amongst them, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him. There were murmurs in the pews and I slunk down lower in my mortification. He placed his handcrafted decoration reverently on the tree and trekked back to his seat next to me. My mom chastised him all the way home for embarrassing us. Finally after being able to get a word in edgewise, this is what he had to say,
“ Mary” “The priest said, ‘Children come up and place your ornaments on the tree’ am I not a child of God? We should never be too old to celebrate the origins of our belief.“
I still was embarrassed at the time, and yes he continued putting ornaments on the Jesse tree for the rest of the season. I now realize what great insight my dad had, and courage to act upon those revelations.
#3 memory “Don’t take things so seriously”
I married my dad! No truer statement could be made. Asking my husband to go to the store is a fool’s errand. He usually comes back with everything but…what was on the list.
My mom’s experience was much the same.
One Christmas Eve my mother asked my father to go out to the local store and pick up some needed household items. My dad agreed to do the task, and at least mentioned he might take a little longer, since he had last minute Christmas shopping.
He arrived home and took off for the garage to wrap his presents. My mom interrupted his endeavors with an inquiry to the items she had sent him for.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry I got carried away and must have forgot.”
She was non-to happy at this revelation. The stores were now closed and she continued to gripe at my dad the remainder of the night. Christmas morning we attended church and then returned home to open presents. As my mom opened those labeled with her name she unwrapped a beautiful expensive perfume bottle of Chennel #9. The next package contained light bulbs, the next toilet paper, and the next salt for the soft water machine. All the items she had asked dad for.
“Sy, why did you let me go on last night instead of just giving me the items?”
“Mary, you enjoy nagging, that was my part of my gift.”
My dad said this while joining the rest of us in laughter. That taught me to not always take everything so seriously.
I have many more experiences because I am constantly learning but I think this couple should help you to figure out some of your own and hopefully make you smile.
Tis the season for Christmas movies and in watching Scrooge for the thirtieth time, I decided to take a trip down memory lane to my Christmases past.
I was not surprised that it was not the gifts or lack of gifts that brought out cherished memories, but tiny moments of love or laughter that stood out.
Thought I would share some of those, so others might reflect on similar moments, and perhaps relax enough during this hectic season to take time to appreciate the small things.
# 1 memory “It does not take riches to laugh.”
When I was seventeen my sister lived on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota. I drove up to her North shore home for the holidays. Things were tight for my sister. She did not have money for fancy decorations. Getting a tree was an easy task, since my sister lived in the woods. We did not have to spend money for a tree, just the time and energy to cut one down. No fancy ornaments or colored lights, but out came the string and on went the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan, but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop-- it flew all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn, catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths, but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.
#2 memory “Always stay young at heart.”
One Christmas when I was a teen my church had a Jesse Tree at the front of the church. Then each Sunday during advent, children were to come up and place an ornament on the branches. The ornaments depicted the events up until Christ’s birth.
My dad at the time was sixty-five years old. He was a big man, over six feet, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, and a loud voice to match his stature. The first Sunday of advent I was sitting in-between my mother and father for mass. Imagine my mother’s surprise, and mine, when the priest asked for the children to come up and place their decorations on the tree, and up pops my dad. As the children shuffled up the isle, there was my dad amongst them, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him. There were murmurs in the pews and I slunk down lower in my mortification. He placed his handcrafted decoration reverently on the tree and trekked back to his seat next to me. My mom chastised him all the way home for embarrassing us. Finally after being able to get a word in edgewise, this is what he had to say,
“ Mary” “The priest said, ‘Children come up and place your ornaments on the tree’ am I not a child of God? We should never be too old to celebrate the origins of our belief.“
I still was embarrassed at the time, and yes he continued putting ornaments on the Jesse tree for the rest of the season. I now realize what great insight my dad had, and courage to act upon those revelations.
#3 memory “Don’t take things so seriously”
I married my dad! No truer statement could be made. Asking my husband to go to the store is a fool’s errand. He usually comes back with everything but…what was on the list.
My mom’s experience was much the same.
One Christmas Eve my mother asked my father to go out to the local store and pick up some needed household items. My dad agreed to do the task, and at least mentioned he might take a little longer, since he had last minute Christmas shopping.
He arrived home and took off for the garage to wrap his presents. My mom interrupted his endeavors with an inquiry to the items she had sent him for.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry I got carried away and must have forgot.”
She was non-to happy at this revelation. The stores were now closed and she continued to gripe at my dad the remainder of the night. Christmas morning we attended church and then returned home to open presents. As my mom opened those labeled with her name she unwrapped a beautiful expensive perfume bottle of Chennel #9. The next package contained light bulbs, the next toilet paper, and the next salt for the soft water machine. All the items she had asked dad for.
“Sy, why did you let me go on last night instead of just giving me the items?”
“Mary, you enjoy nagging, that was my part of my gift.”
My dad said this while joining the rest of us in laughter. That taught me to not always take everything so seriously.
I have many more experiences because I am constantly learning but I think this couple should help you to figure out some of your own and hopefully make you smile.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Secret Santa
SECRET (NINJA) SANTA
“Ahhh!!!”
I hear a scream coming from the living room. As I race down the hall, pain-filled words follow the scream.
“I’m blind, I’m blind,” my ex-Marine husband exclaims. He faces my voice, his eyes squinted shut. He is holding a pair of night-vision goggles.
“What happened? “ I ask.
“I almost had him,” he responds.
“Had who?”
“Our Secret Santa! But the noise-sensitive flood lights came on and blinded me through the goggles.”
We’ve had a Secret Santa leaving presents the last couple of days. The gifts are accompanied by a poem coinciding with the twelve days of Christmas. Now my husband and I had both belonged to a military intelligence unit when we met. We now own and operate a martial arts studio. So, sometimes my husband forgets there is a regular world out there that does not require paranoid surveillance.
“Let’s see what he left,” I say walking to the front door.
“Yeah, I guess its okay,” my husband agrees. “He’s long gone by now.”
It’s five gold napkin rings. “Why is it so important to catch our benefactor?” I ask William, playing with the rings.
“I just hate the idea someone can get one on us.”
“What do you mean get one on us?’
“You know, sneak up on us. We are the sneaks.”
I shake my head, and the stakeout continues. Our Santa never comes at the same time, so it makes things difficult. William becomes obsessed and recruits our daughter into the operation. I come home from the studio to find black construction paper on all the windows facing the front of the house. Eyeholes are cut out and there are no lights on inside except for a red glowing chem. light.
“Where is Ciara?” I ask.
“Shhh, bedroom,” he whispers.
I go to our daughter’s bedroom. There she sits. On a chair. Facing the blackened window. Keeping lookout. Through peepholes.
Now it is my turn to yell, and when I let loose with an “Ahh,” my daughter starts and jumps up from the chair. My husband runs down the hall.
“Did you see something? What direction did they come from? Couldn’t you signal quietly?”
I answer in order.
“No. I don’t know. And I’M TIRED OF BEING QUIET!”
Our daughter returns to her post and softly says, “I think there’s something on the porch.”
My husband then gives me the look, the one that says “Thanks a lot” and really doesn’t mean it.
I privately think, he needs a hobby.
This time it is eleven “Lords a Leaping” ornaments. There’s one day left to catch the Ninja Santa.
This time William goes all out. He dresses in his Army cold weather, all white, gear. He climbs on the roof to settle in for the watch.
I’m sitting inside watching “White Christmas” on the tube when a loud war cry comes from out front, followed by an “oomph.”
I race to the front door to see the pursuit in progress. My husband is chasing a black-clad figure down a couple of yards. I pull on my boots to follow, to keep William in check. The Ninja-Santa jumps a neighbor’s fence, and their large but friendly dog tackles the culprit. William pulls the dog off the figure and hauls him to his feet. He removes the hood on the now very docile St. Ninjalas
It is a young 17-year-old from the Taekwondo school.
“Jeesh, Mr. Guy this Twelve Days of Christmas Secret Santa business has been a tradition of my family for years. But this had to be the hardest mission ever.”
William was grinning ear to ear. “Caught ya, didn’t I? Can’t get one over on me.”
I pat the young man on the back and say, “This was the best Christmas present you could have given him.”
But I hope next year our students just give us cookies.
“Ahhh!!!”
I hear a scream coming from the living room. As I race down the hall, pain-filled words follow the scream.
“I’m blind, I’m blind,” my ex-Marine husband exclaims. He faces my voice, his eyes squinted shut. He is holding a pair of night-vision goggles.
“What happened? “ I ask.
“I almost had him,” he responds.
“Had who?”
“Our Secret Santa! But the noise-sensitive flood lights came on and blinded me through the goggles.”
We’ve had a Secret Santa leaving presents the last couple of days. The gifts are accompanied by a poem coinciding with the twelve days of Christmas. Now my husband and I had both belonged to a military intelligence unit when we met. We now own and operate a martial arts studio. So, sometimes my husband forgets there is a regular world out there that does not require paranoid surveillance.
“Let’s see what he left,” I say walking to the front door.
“Yeah, I guess its okay,” my husband agrees. “He’s long gone by now.”
It’s five gold napkin rings. “Why is it so important to catch our benefactor?” I ask William, playing with the rings.
“I just hate the idea someone can get one on us.”
“What do you mean get one on us?’
“You know, sneak up on us. We are the sneaks.”
I shake my head, and the stakeout continues. Our Santa never comes at the same time, so it makes things difficult. William becomes obsessed and recruits our daughter into the operation. I come home from the studio to find black construction paper on all the windows facing the front of the house. Eyeholes are cut out and there are no lights on inside except for a red glowing chem. light.
“Where is Ciara?” I ask.
“Shhh, bedroom,” he whispers.
I go to our daughter’s bedroom. There she sits. On a chair. Facing the blackened window. Keeping lookout. Through peepholes.
Now it is my turn to yell, and when I let loose with an “Ahh,” my daughter starts and jumps up from the chair. My husband runs down the hall.
“Did you see something? What direction did they come from? Couldn’t you signal quietly?”
I answer in order.
“No. I don’t know. And I’M TIRED OF BEING QUIET!”
Our daughter returns to her post and softly says, “I think there’s something on the porch.”
My husband then gives me the look, the one that says “Thanks a lot” and really doesn’t mean it.
I privately think, he needs a hobby.
This time it is eleven “Lords a Leaping” ornaments. There’s one day left to catch the Ninja Santa.
This time William goes all out. He dresses in his Army cold weather, all white, gear. He climbs on the roof to settle in for the watch.
I’m sitting inside watching “White Christmas” on the tube when a loud war cry comes from out front, followed by an “oomph.”
I race to the front door to see the pursuit in progress. My husband is chasing a black-clad figure down a couple of yards. I pull on my boots to follow, to keep William in check. The Ninja-Santa jumps a neighbor’s fence, and their large but friendly dog tackles the culprit. William pulls the dog off the figure and hauls him to his feet. He removes the hood on the now very docile St. Ninjalas
It is a young 17-year-old from the Taekwondo school.
“Jeesh, Mr. Guy this Twelve Days of Christmas Secret Santa business has been a tradition of my family for years. But this had to be the hardest mission ever.”
William was grinning ear to ear. “Caught ya, didn’t I? Can’t get one over on me.”
I pat the young man on the back and say, “This was the best Christmas present you could have given him.”
But I hope next year our students just give us cookies.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Eliminating Fear
“ Trips to the out house
daily routine of elimination
first thing in the morning
last thing at night.”
My sister wrote that poem about her austere way of life in the north woods. People suffer all kinds of disabilities but few rank up there as too embarrassing to discuss. We all associate bowel talk as a subject for the elderly or young mothers potty training their toddlers. Circumstance has changed both my life and my views.
Elimination is a part of everyone’s life; no one escapes it, yet why does it embarrass us so? Maybe because we recognize there are many kinds of toxins that we need to eliminate, not just from the food we eat or the air we breathe. Toxins such as negative thoughts or words that we fail to eliminate and drag us down or stop us from reaching our goals. Living with an ostomy means: I no longer can just appear strong but that I am strong.
A couple of years ago I became very ill with ulcerative colitis. It is a physically painful and embarrassing disease. It started out with; I could not go anywhere there was not a bathroom close by, to not eating for thirty days. I was hospitalized and the doctors could not get the disease under control, thus resulting in an operation. This operation involved the complete removal of the large intestine. I have what they call an ileostomy. Without a bowel I have no normal way to excrete toxins out of my body, “In lay terms I can’t poop.” So part of my intestines is pulled out through a hole that is made in my abdomen and waste exits there in a bag I attach every couple of days. I was told that as an osmotic that I would live a perfectly normal life. There were only a few things I could not do, like: wrestling, football, and martial arts.
Martial Arts! I owned and operated a martial arts school for the last twenty years and was the only breadwinner of a family of four. The doctor said, “ You could easily herniate the intestine with that vigorous of exercise and you must be careful not to receive a blow to that area.”
“ It’s okay’” I said. “I block really well.” Anyway being an A-type personality I continued in the martial arts.
This brings us to living and dealing with the ileostomy. The very act of kicking for me is a risk, not to injury but in an embarrassing situation. The bag that is attached to my stomach is applied simply with a paste similar to denture cream and a sticky tape wafer. I take a chance every time I throw a kick that the apparatus could dislodge resulting in a mess.
Of course this in fact has happened. That perfect day, or so it seemed, over one hundred students came through my school doors. I felt fulfilled, then the sh__ hit the fan or should I say ran down my leg. I closed my eyes momentarily and prayed, “Please. God, just let me disappear now.” I didn’t disappear and as I looked up at my students I knew it was time to put my mental martial arts training into place. I excused myself and went into the bathroom, cleaned up, changed and went back out to teach. I then shared with the class my ailment. In doing so opened up the floor to all sorts of dialogue I had no idea was possible. Some shared with me ailments they had that I did not know afflicted them. As a result of my sharing and my example of continuing in my training some felt inspired to accomplish their goals. I continue to be open, both in an outside of the school. I’m not shy about my ostomy and I have been surprised at how many people know of someone with some type of ostomy or are an ostomite themselves.
I still have bad days because there are a lot of inconveniences to this disability. I generally try to use humor to diffuse them. I make jokes about myself like: I give a whole new meaning to, “I have a gut feeling,” or, the other day when I went to the pharmacy and they asked me, “What kind of bags do you need?”
I had to remember not to say, “Paper!”
Yes, humor helps on those days when I would rather not put up with this disease’s challenge. There are many different avenues of coping as there are people with this problem. I have a few friends who find it difficult to leave their homes or to travel. I look at it this way: I am an ostomite whether I leave home or not, so eliminate fear and live life!
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